Gay pero virgen

Mr. Lionel Mortimer was a young gentleman of few intentions and no private means. Good-humored, by no means ill-looking, and with engaging manners, he was the type of man of whom one would have prophesied great things. His natural gaiety and address were more than enough to carry him over the early stages of acquaintanceship, but subsequent meetings were doomed to end in disillusion. His cheerful outlook on life would be as much to your taste as ever; but the want of a definite aim and an obvious inability to convert his talents into cash made you shake your head doubtfully.

A charming fellow, of course, but unpractical ... the kind of man who is popular with all but match-making mothers.

He lived in two rooms in an obscure street off the Strand, and at the time when we make his acquaintance he has just finished a meal that stamps the lower middle classes and the impecunious-to wit, high tea. For the benefit of gastronomers it may be stated that it included herrings, a loaf of bread, some butter of repellent aspect, and strawberry jam. Lionel has lighted his pipe and seated himself at the window to enjoy as much of a June evening as can be enjoyable in a London back street. He has not emitted three puffs of smoke before a tap at the door heralds the entrance of his landlady.

Mrs. Barker, a woman of commanding presence and dressed in rusty black, came into the room. She did not utter a word, not even the conventional remark that it was a fine night or that the evenings would soon begin to draw in now. With a funereal but businesslike demeanor she began to remove the débris of the meal, at intervals giving vent to a rasping cough or a malignant sniff. Of her presence Lionel seemed oblivious, for he continued sitting with his back to the door, gazing with apparent interest into the street. This, perhaps, was curious, for the street was but a lane with little traffic and no features worthy of note. Nor was the building opposite calculated to inspire the most sedulous observer, being merely the blank wall of a warehouse. Not a single window relieved the monotony, usually so painful to the artist or the adventurer. And yet Lionel puffed at his pipe, gazing silently in front of him as if at a masterpiece by Whistler.

When the landlady had transferred the tea-things to a tray, shaken the crumbs from the table-cloth into the empty grate and folded it, she nerved herself for a direct attack. Placing her arms akimbo-an attitude usually denoting truculent defiance or a pleasurable sense of injustice-she pronounced her lodger's name. Lionel started, as if made aware of her presence for the first time. He took his pipe from his mouth and turned with a pleasant smile.

"Good evening, Mrs. Barker," he said with careful politeness. "A fine night, is it not?"

She assented with an ill grace. Without giving her time to add to her appreciation, Lionel continued in suave but enthusiastic tones:

"Oblige me, Mrs. Barker, by observing the manner in which the sun strikes the opposite wall. Notice the sharp outline of that chimney-pot against the sky. Remark the bold sweep of that piece of spouting-a true secession curve of which the molder was probably completely ignorant. Again, the background! That dull gray monotone--"

This rhapsody was interrupted by Mrs. Barker, whose artistic education had consisted in a course of free-hand drawing in a board school and a study of the colored plates issued by the Christmas magazines. It was hardly to be expected that she should wax enthusiastic over the warehouse wall.

"It's no good torkin, Mr. Mortimer," she said; "I want my rent."

"But how reasonable!" returned Lionel with increased brightness. "How much does it come to? Certain tokens of copper-silver-gold-with some trifling additions for food, fire, etc.--"

"One pahnd three sempence for this week," snapped Mrs. Barker. After a pause she added constrainedly, "If yer please."

"Why! you are even more reasonable than I expected," cried Lionel. "If I please! How could a man refuse anything after so polite a prelude? If I please! My rent, if I please, is one pound, three and sevenpence; and I must admit that the sum is paltry. If I please to exist (and up to the present I have been delighted to fall in with the schemes of Providence) I can do so for some twenty-four shillings a week. It includes," he added hopefully, "the washing?"

She nodded grimly and stretched out her hand. Lionel, with an easy smile, waved her to the door.

"To-morrow, Mrs. Barker, if you please. At the moment I regret to say that my funds do not amount to the necessary sum. To-morrow I make no doubt that--"

Mrs. Barker interrupted with brisk invective. It appeared that Lionel was several weeks already in arrears. She, it seemed, was a lone widow, earning her bread by the sweat of her brow, and she would not be put upon. The position had become intolerable: either he must pay his rent or leave the next morning.

"Let us consider the state of affairs," said Lionel, unruffled. "You, it appears, need your money-or rather, my money-and I can not gainsay the moral claim. You have attended to my simple wants in a manner beyond praise, and I would cheerfully pay you your weight in gold (after the pleasing custom in the East) had I the precious ore. But at the moment my capital"-he searched his pockets-"amounts to sixpence ha'penny; hence the deplorable impasse. My profession holds out no prospect of immediate or adequate reward: briefs are lacking and editors slow to recognize merit. I have pawned such of my wardrobe as is not necessary to support the illusion of an independent gentleman. What do you suggest as a solution of our difficulties? It is repugnant to both of us that I should live on your charity. I am open to any bright idea."

Unluckily the landlady was not an imaginative woman. She could suggest nothing, save that Lionel should pay his rent or leave. The method of raising money was left entirely to him, but the necessity was insisted on in forcible terms.

"An ultimatum?" said the lodger thoughtfully. "Well, I can not blame you. As you have no illuminating schemes, Mrs. Barker, I must rely on myself. But rest assured that you shall be paid. What! I am young and strong; my clothes, thanks to judicious mending and a light hand with the brush, will pass muster; we are in London, the richest city in the world. I will go out and look for a fairy godmother."

At this resolve Mrs. Barker broke into cries of protest. With a feminine distrust of her own sex she declared that no such creature should pass her threshold. For fifty years she had lived respectable, and it was her firm intention to die in the same persuasion. Lionel raised a deprecating hand.

"You mistake me," he said in gentle reproof. "It was but a manner of speaking inspired by the recollection of Cinderella. Being, however, the masculine equivalent of that lady of romance (or shall we say, 'Lob Lie-by-the-Fire'?) and out of deference to your sense of propriety, I will strive to acquire a fairy godfather. Till to-morrow, then, Mrs. Barker."

He rose and politely held the door open. The landlady, carrying the tray and table-cloth, left the room in dudgeon.

As soon as she had gone Lionel's face lost something of its optimism, and he began to whistle a tune in a minor key. It was a music-hall refrain, originally scored in quick time and the major clef, a gay lilt of the streets. Modulated by Lionel, under the depressing influence of Mrs. Barker, it became a dirge, incredibly painful to the ear. This even the whistler recognized after a few moments, and with a laugh at himself and his misfortunes he seized his hat and went out.

He was by no means clear as to his immediate intentions. Save that his urgent need was money he had no definite idea or plan. How to compass the few pounds necessary to discharge his debt and make sure of a roof was at present beyond his wit, seeing that the situations for men like him are not picked up in a moment. He had been expensively educated at a public school and Oxford, and had a bowing acquaintance with the classics and a tolerable knowledge of law. For three years after taking his degree he had led a pleasant life, eating dinners, reading law and writing. By his pen he had made some sixty pounds a year; by the law-nothing. His father had given him an allowance while he lived, but eighteen months previously his business had failed and the consequent worry had driven him into the grave. His wife had died in giving Lionel birth. After his father's death Lionel perforce had put forth more strenuous efforts. He had even written a novel and sold it for thirty pounds. One or two plays lay in his desk or managers' muniment-chests, and a number of pot-boilers were soliciting the favorable consideration of callous editors. It had been a precarious though interesting existence, but he had kept his head above water until the last few weeks. Now he was standing on the curb in the Strand, wondering amiably what he should do.

"My best chance," he thought, watching the stream of traffic that never failed to fascinate, "would be to write a loathsome article, topical, snappy and bright, and try to sell it for spot cash. I do not think it would be much good studying the advertisements and applying for a post as clerk or secretary. I hate the notion of being a clerk.... There is envelope-addressing, I believe, but I write a villainous hand ... nor do I care to call upon my friends and expose my unhappy condition...." (Since his father's death Lionel had naturally given up his old way of life and dropped out of his usual milieu.) ... "No; I think the loathsome article is clearly indicated. What shall I write about? 'How It Feels to be Out in the Streets?'... 'The Psychology of Landladies.'... 'At a Loose End-A Curbstone Study.'... How odd that I am desperately in need of money and hate the thought of sitting down to earn it! How much pleasanter would it be to stand here and wait for an adventure-for the fairy godmother who troubled the conventional Mrs. Barker! After all, it is not impossible.... A horse might take fright and bolt ... the driver lose his head ... a beauteous damsel sits wringing her hands in the carriage. I seize the opportunity, spring forward and check the maddened steed, escort the fainting lady home in a cab, and then-ah! Boundless Possibilities."